


Funny Little Thing

by purrslink



Category: A-Team (TV), A-Team - All Media Types
Genre: Angst, Friendship, Hurt/Comfort, M/M, Near Death Experience, Non-Graphic Violence, Pre-Relationship, Slow Build, Vietnam Era, mentions of torture
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2012-11-18
Updated: 2012-11-18
Packaged: 2017-11-18 23:08:04
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 7
Words: 15,405
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/566284
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/purrslink/pseuds/purrslink
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Five times Murdock tucks Face in to to sleep, and the one time Face tucks in Murdock.</p>
            </blockquote>





	1. Chapter 1

**Author's Note:**

> Five times Murdock tucks Face in to sleep...

The first time it happens he doesn’t even know it’s what he needs.

He’s in the infirmary, lying in one of the only clean beds in all of ‘Nam, arm slung and shoulder bandaged so tightly and thickly that he wonders if it can be seen from space. In fact, he feels like he’s in space, floating, thanks to a wonderful cocktail of wonderful drugs that make things spin and curl wonderfully, including the blonde nurse he’s taken to calling Florence, since she has no name tag.

He might be a bit high.

“Florence, have I told you how beautiful you are?” He knows he’s drawling, possibly drooling slightly, though he blows a wisp of hair from his face and leans back to give her a dashing smile. Hospital chic, he is. “We should absolutely get drinks when I’m out of here. Or juice, or whatever you lovely ladies drink. What do you drink? I bet its wine, you like wine? Do you even drink at all? Like, is it a nurse thing or is it a girl thing, not going to bars.”

Florence is just smiling into her clipboard, marking his numbers and putting a cool slender hand to his forehead. “You have a fever, Mr. Peck.”

“Only because I’m looking at the hottest thing here.” Seriously, why isn’t she falling for this? It’s gold, absolute gold! “You’re like the sun, on earth, except you don’t burn everything down, so maybe you’re more like the moon.”

Ok, he’s definitely high.

She just smiles, shakes her head of curls, adjusts his I.V. and smooths the sheets down. “Get some rest, dear.”

And she sashays off leaving him alone with the plastic tubing and curtain drawn against whoever is coughing next door. That in itself is depressing enough, but combined with drugs enhancing every sound in the ward, he’s soon realizing that he’s surrounded by potentially dying men. People like him, soldiers, young men who didn’t know what the hell they were actually getting into.

Now would be the perfect time to go to sleep.

Yet he can’t, can’t get himself to settle down, and no matter which way he turns or which way he faces all he can hear are the coughs, the wheezes, what could be a death rattle down the hall or just a squeaky dolly.

Either way, it’s making his skin crawl and his ears ring with the mission gone south and when the curtain pulls back with a sudden chink of metal rings he nearly jumps out of bed to dive for cover from Charlie’s bullets.

“Easy, muchacho, easy there!”

He knows that drawl even before he opens his eyes, and when he does, sure enough, there’s the pilot in his flight suit still, leather jacket still smelling of rain and flight helmet recently painted with a snarling Thunderbird under one arm. For having been off mission for only two hours, the man looks remarkably perky and annoyingly lucid.

“How ya feelin’, Faceman?” He can feel those brown eyes study him, scanning for excessive damage, and like always he wonders exactly why those eyes look so steady and off-kilter at the same time.

“Murdock, I’m telling you, it’s just too damn hard to get laid around here.” And he sighs dramatically.

Murdock nods, sympathetic, coming up to pat his shoulder even as that Thunderbird seems to screech from the helmet. “Sorry to hear. Maybe you’re just losing your charm.”

The pilot’s hand pauses at his neck, fingers feeling the heat radiating off and he rolls his eyes at the mother hen. “Lose my charm, lose my charm? Really, Murdock, really. This is Templeton Peck you’re talking to here. I can’t lose my charm. It’s like an astronaut losing air, B.A. losing his gold, nuns losing their vows!”

A large snort meets that and Murdock rolls his eyes. “Face, nuns lose their vows because of you! Not cause they just drop them along on the ground like spare change.”

He frowns, thinking that through, imagining Sister Catherine losing her celibacy down the storm drain, the vow slipping through the cracks like water as the old nun struggles to grab it through the black bars. It makes him giggle, honest to God school girl giggle, and he knows Murdock is raising an eyebrow now and fingering the clipboard up to scan the surface. “Spare change…”

“Mhm,” Murdock says, scanning the chart and raising an eyebrow at some thing or another. “Man, Face, you’re going to have fun tomorrow…”

“What happens tomorrow? Do the nurses finally lose their vows too?” He pauses, and frowns. “Do nurses take vows? Fuck, that explains a lot…”

Murdock’s eyes flick to him and he knows his friend is amused because one corner of his mouth twitches. He needs to teach the man to have a better poker face, seriously. “I’m sure it has nothin’ to do with this mix o’ high class medicines on your chart.”

He waves that off – not important. “Does it say devilishly handsome? Because I told them to put that down, but I don’t think they were listening.”

He also remembers a lot of blood and yelling, but that’s irrelevant as well.

The pilot evidently remembers that latter part better because his face softens and he leans over to replace the chart and ruffle his hair. Something he doesn’t particularly like and he says so with a rueful glare.

The Texan merely chuckles, however, and shifts the Thunderbird away to pat Face’s shoulder. “Oh Faceman, it’s good to see you doin’ ok.” Murdock’s voice softens, lowers. “Was real worried there for awhile.”

From the man’s face, something scared him bad, but he can’t think of what. He just remembers the shot from the trees, his arm exploding into pain, and then a sudden floating feeling punctured with gun fire and gold earrings that seemed very out of place for the DMZ. He also remembers that Thunderbird turning toward him, hovering, screeching in time with the whine of the rotors.

What had they been doing again?

Does it matter?

Not when things are waving like they are, not really. Besides he feels fine. Like he could take on all of Charlie from this bed right here and be as calm and cool as the Colonel himself. Without the cigar. He’s that bad ass right now.

“Don’t worry about me, Murdock.” He waves a hand to clap the man on the shoulder, but misses and hits his arm instead. Close enough. “You can’t kill the Faceman with mere bullets.”

Murdock raises an eyebrow, the other side of his mouth quirking now. “You Superman now, Face?”

“He had to learn from somewhere.” He grins at the pilot, wonders why the man is spinning, and reaches out to get him to stop only to find there isn’t really a Murdock there. Fool him once.

At his frown Murdock sets his helmet down at the edge of the bed, the Thunderbird turning away and quieting as a lanky hand reaches up to tuck the sheet that had fallen off his chest back in. “Easy there, Faceman. You should be layin’ down, getting some of that beauty sleep for your shoulder there. Wouldn’t want it scarring too badly.”

His frown deepens because if Murdock leaves he’ll be left alone with those sounds and he’s not sure he can take that all night long. “Eh, beauty sleep. Who needs it when you’ve already hit maximum like me?”

The pilot snorts, loudly, and rolls his brown eyes as he starts on the other side, the crisp white cotton conforming to Face’s body as it’s expertly tucked in. “Now I know you’re on happy pills, Faceman.”

As the other side is finished he doesn’t know why Murdock doesn’t stop and he doesn’t know why he doesn’t stop the pilot. But as Murdock’s hands spread over the white cotton and began to neatly tuck the blanket in to his sides, he finds himself settling down, that lanky body providing a shadow, a space to hover lay quietly under and not worry about the sighs and groans and indistinguishable rattle down the hall.

“See, now ain’t that a little better?” Murdock smiles and adjusts the edge of the sheet across his chest, smoothing it down gently. “Get you all snug as a bug under a rug here so that you ain’t movin’ that shoulder too much.”

“You sure you aren’t part nurse?” he asks as the pilot runs one last check of the bed sheet.

He’s tucked in fairly well, he has to admit. And he doesn’t know why that’s so comforting. Or why he’s suddenly leaning back into the pillows so deeply, or why his eyes are so heavy. Why didn’t he know about this trick earlier? Funny little trick it is, he’ll have to remember it. Especially if it always makes things this secure, anchoring him down so his body doesn’t float away.

“Might be. Does run in the family,” Murdock says, distantly. Fingers push back his bangs and the weight at the end of the bed is gone, the Thunderbird having flown off elsewhere. “Get some rest, Faceman. B.A. and Hannibal will come by later.”

When he tries to grab the pilot’s wrist he manages this time with only minimal error. “Murdock?”

The pilot pauses, pulse fast under Face’s hand, and as a flap of heavy canvas sounds close by (or is it the Thunderbird?) for a moment he swears the pilot is glowing orange. “Yeah, ba-buddy?”

He scrunches his nose, wondering what that flub was, but he’s starting to float up and away with the Thunderbird now, ascending up, up, up through the dirty beige canvas and up into the stars that must be peeking out by now. “You’re all orange.”

“Mhm,” is all Murdock says, the sound flowing like smoke through the air. “Go to sleep, Face.”

His eyes close as those vast wings widen in an updraft. “You’ve got to see this bird…it’s a lot like the one on your helmet…”

The last thing he feels is a hand smoothing his hair and a quiet, amused drawl drifting up after them both. “I’m sure it is.”


	2. Chapter 2

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Murdock tucks Face in to sleep...

Two years later and he hates that fucking jungle more than ever. Hates the big fucking bugs that seem to multiply exponentially just by being close to an insect of the opposite sex, hates the fact that two pairs of socks still won’t save your feet from being raw and weeping by the end of the day, and he especially hates that this is the third night they’ve been out in this shit hole excuse for a hide out and there’s no end in sight.

What’s worse is the fact that Murdock is next to him, staring wide eyed upward into a black, expansive sky, cloudy with un-fallen rain and smoke, tainted with yellow flare light.  
Perhaps worse is a strong word, or gives the wrong idea.

It’s not that he minds the pilot being so close. In fact, Murdock is the warmest thing here, and fuck it feels good to lean into that lithe form and borrow some body heat for awhile. The pilot is doing the same thing with him. Mutual, parasitic heat exchange. Let the grunts laugh, it works, and they all do the same thing on these nights. They just don't admit it.

No, what he doesn’t like is the fact that Murdock is here, because pilots are only grounded for two reasons: no troops or downed air craft.

And everyone knows pilots are the first to go.

At least there aren’t grunts to worry about right now, the ones that have been spreading rumors about the crack pot pilot, that Howling Mad flyboy. Words, as everyone knows, can hurt, and in an Army camp of frustrated grunts in a war that can't be won, well, words are the only weapons justified within camp walls. And while they may not bother Murdock, the man just laughing and teasing and saving everyone's ass, as usual, they bother him. He just couldn't tell you exactly why.

Team camaraderie.

Yeah.

That's for if-no, when they get back. For now, they need to deal with Charlie in the far distance, the rat-a-tat-tat of gunfire off in the trees indicating that their own are out there somewhere too, backed up by the triggered land mines sounding and faint smell of Agent Orange in the far, far distance. They're sights and sounds that could overwhelm if he paid too much attention, the things that caused screws to come unloose. They're also sounds he shouldn’t be hearing. He should be asleep. Murdock is on watch as they wait, hope, pray that a chopper shows up. That someone knows where they went down, that someone is coming. He’s not so sure they do, or that they care, though, and that terrifies him.

Who could sleep with the chance hanging over their head that this is the end?

Murdock looks down as he shifts for the millionth time in the last half-hour. “Face?”

It seems impossibly loud in the jungle air, even over the sounds of war and indigenous noise, and he winces at the suddenness of it all. But Hannibal isn’t shushing them and B.A. is asleep – the guy can sleep through anything if he wants to – and apparently that is a quiet enough voice to be acceptable. “Yeah?”

“You ok?” He knows the pilot is shaken, first time on the ground, probably last, hopefully last. But Murdock is doing a good job of not showing the guilt he knows the pilot has to feel; even dings cause black moods in the Texan and this time they lost everything but a tail rotor blade.

Those poker lessons seem to be paying off.

“Yeah.” He pauses at the sound of a distant shout, then adds. “You?”

“Fine and dandy and thinkin’ about booking a vacation here, you know, just to relive all this.” 

It’s a dark joke but he finds himself smiling anyway because, really, at this point in his life most of the humor is macabre anyway. “Best budget travel in the world, right buddy?”

There would probably be a smile if he looked, and he wonders for a moment when he became so in tune with this man, the one with the intense brown eyes that don’t seem to quite be here or there. How does he know there’s a smile? How does he always seem to be the one who knows when the mood shifts and the Murdockian barometer swings low? 

He doesn’t know how the others don’t know – it’s obvious to him, most of the time at least. The Captain gives signals that are easy to follow when you know. Maybe he’s just born extraordinary in the art of reading people. Or maybe Murdock only lets him know…

No, it must be just a closer in age thing.

Yeah.

He lets the topic go and sets his cheek on the taller man’s shoulder. Perfect height for it, and besides, he’s allowed. He’s supposed to be sleeping, after all, a fact that Murdock seems to remember as that drawl says, “Should get some sleep, Faceman.”

“I know.” But he can’t get comfortable, can’t block the noise enough, and he squirms into the pilot’s side a few more times, away from the one damn tree root in this entire hole (of course he'd find it), before Murdock shoves him off with one firm hand. “Sorry.”

Yet Murdock unstraps his gun, just for a moment, to get at the leather jacket underneath. A loud zip and a few rustles see the jacket off those bony shoulders and Murdock leaning back, patting his now exposed shoulder. “Come on. Or my lap if you want, whichever helps you get some sleep, oh Facial one.”

Things move inside of him at the latter suggestion, things he’s not really sure of what they mean right now, so he sticks with the platonic shoulder and ignores the soft - disappointed? - huff from Murdock.

What he doesn’t ignore is the leather jacket being placed around his shoulders. “Murdock…”

The pilot is already shivering but the Texan doesn’t relent, and those fingers begin to pull and tug and crease until that brown leather jacket, smelling faintly of oil and paint and stinking strongly of smoke, is tucked in neatly around his frame. “There we go.”

So reminiscent of a time two years ago, when he saw a Thunderbird fly and do a barrel roll with the exact same howl that the team’s pilot does. Complete with that warm feeling that has nothing to do with drugs and everything to do with the pre-warmed jacket given so unconditionally to his frame. He wants to protest, starts to, a small, uncertain stutter emitting from his throat.

But Murdock shushes him by bringing him closer, fingers kneading into his shoulder. “Shhh, Face. Get some sleep, or you’ll fall asleep on watch. An’ I don't want to un-bury your ass if Hannibal finds out.”

“If?” he says with a small snort, those fingers hitting knots that are making it harder to concentrate on the mud in his boots and the smell of soil in his nose.

A low, low chuckle, so quiet it’s almost lost to the sound of thunder rolling overhead. “When.”

It’s just like last time, that funny little thing that is a tucked in blanket bringing that confined, secure feeling. This neat little trick that makes the gunfire further away than it is. A warmth in of itself that spreads into his chest. It’s enough to illicit a weary sigh as his head turns into Murdock’s neck.

“Shhh,” Murdock says, more in reassurance than admonishment.

And he closes his eyes, shifting into the pilot once more as a bird sounds off, one, two, three short whistles: high low high. A call that Murdock answers in kind, to the bird that is Hannibal in the fox hole over, code for all clear, code for safe, code for holding.

But to Face it sounds eerily like the Thunderbird, or what one would sound like on the ground, and he drifts even as rain begins to fall, pattering on his helmet and mixing with what he swears is the rustle of wings as Murdock shifts his arm tighter around him.


	3. Chapter 3

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Murdock tucks Face in to sleep...

Another year after that and he's standing on the Red River Delta, far away from Hanoi, far away from anything that counts as civilization in his mind because civilized life doesn't try to kill you with your own Claymores or RPGs or KS-23s shot from the back of a fucking bicycle. Sometimes, he wonders exactly who these people are. And then, in the same breath, he wonders who he is, because doesn't he have an M21 strapped to his chest now and a M6 bayonet strapped to his leg? 

Who are the real monsters here?

And as he asks that the river rises over the edge and onto his boots, the water no longer an angry black but deep red and thick, and in it he can see things oozing up, hands reaching out, as the other bank explodes. Screams, cries, of James, of Dale, of women and children and men who must have been good to someone somewhere at some time. But if they were he doesn't know, can't see, can't see anything now because there's dark smoke in his eyes and he's falling backwards into the thick grass and gnarled tree roots of a banyan tree, where sightless eyes stare up at him from the branches, another victim of a failed jump.

He's crying, he knows he is, and shaking as his hands grip soil, and he's so tired of smelling nothing but death that-

He wakes to a hand on his shoulder, feather light, struggling to stay curled around his shoulder. "Face, Face, Faceman, wake up..."

Panic is still there, still making him draw in and try to turn away from that tired drawl as his hands shoot out to hold on to something, anything. When his fingers hit bars, he realizes he's not at the Red River Delta, not under the banyan tree, and the darkness isn't smoke but night.

It all rushes back in a fury of hot sound and smell, and it's overwhelming, the sounds of groaning and weeping, that smell of shit and old bamboo and blood staining every inch of himself. Painting him in fear.

The cage shudders as he struggles to sit up, to try to get away because this might be a dream too. He's stopped by a hand on his shoulder that causes him to hiss in a bright flash of dazing white pain. "Face, shhh, stay still."

"Everything ok, Captain?" Hannibal's voice is quiet from across the way, in the cage next door as he remembers now. How long they’ve been here, he doesn't remember.

"Yeah, Hannibal." The drawl is tired though, fluttery, barely here. "I got him."

B.A. grunts something low, something quiet, and he can feel the cage moving as Murdock shifts. But he can't concentrate too long on it because he's starting to remember how they got here, why they're here, and why his back is on fire and his legs almost useless, numb and limp only because they haven't awoken enough for the nerve endings to scream.

"Gonna move you a bit, Faceman, all right?" Murdock says, quietly, as he runs a soft hand down his arm. A trembling hand. "Just shift ya a bit, you'll feel better."

There's still the smell of blood in his nose, his blood now that he thinks about it, and someone else's. What the hell happened today? And why is the jungle so cold now? It was never cold before, outside of this place...

Arms are under his chest though, sliding him onto two long legs, away from the bars and on to warm flesh. He shivers at the movement, moans at the fact his back is reposition, skin stretching. But a hand runs through his hair and that soft, sibilant voice is coiling in the night. "Shhhh, Face, I gotcha."

"Murdock..." He manages, finally, trying to grip something that isn't hard and rough. They latch on to the sticky fabric of long since stained BDUs.

"Right here, Faceman, right here." Those fingers that are so fucking talented at the controls of machines he can't even fathom run over his hands, weak but there, tracing the valleys and peaks of his knuckles. "Go to sleep, Face."

He's so tired, so very tired, and he wants to, badly. But everything is cold, he's shivering now, and every time he closes his eyes he feels himself falling, drowning in that red tide as those sightless paratrooper's eyes watch on. He's afraid he'll flow away with the currents, unable to swim and with no one but those blank white orbs to watch him go. He's more afraid of that loneliness than even these bars.

A whimper he barely recognizes as his own breaks through and he tries to burrow into that solid thigh, to stay here rather than there. "P-Please..."

Murdock sighs, a broken sigh at himself that he can't understand - why is the pilot upset at himself? He can feel tremors in the pilot's body, though, and can vaguely remember that, yesterday, it was him trying to help the Texan come back from that very deep edge he had only heard about and hadn't seen. Until this camp, that is. He understood the haunted look in the eyes of the reinstated grunts now. Knew why the term "the walking dead" fit so well.

But no matter the hurt Murdock has sustained, he's here, has so far managed to pull himself back to Face, or he's managed to pull the pilot back. He's not sure how, or if he always will come back. Even B.A. worries. For now, though, the man is here and though he feels guilt in himself at being like this, for depending so greedily on the Texan for comfort and this momentary safety. But as sick of himself as he is, he needs Murdock, and Murdock needs him. So he stays as he is and hopes to God that tomorrow he can ask for forgiveness from Murdock. From himself, too.

A loud rip mars the whimpers as Murdock shifts above him.

"Murdock," Hannibal says lowly.

"He needs it more, Colonel." There's no arguing with that tone, and Hannibal he knows is too weary to do anything but glare at whatever the Captain is doing.

He's not sure what the fuss is over, however, until something light weight flutters onto his back. Then he knows, knows exactly what it is, and he has to agree with Hannibal. "Bud-dy..." He can't finish, starts to cough and shiver.

Nimble fingers, so much slower these days, begin to tuck in the threadbare shirt. A sleeve under his shoulder, the collar around his neck, fabric smoothed into the curve of his arm then around his side for a small amount of comfort from rough bamboo. Tucked in with the precision and care of a surgeon. And the funny thing is, even here, even in this shit hole of a country and shit hole of a place, he still feels like that thin piece of cloth is anchoring him down, stills him into the warmth of the pilot, down to the here, not the there, where at least he has Hannibal, and B.A., and Murdock.

"There," Murdock says quietly, strain in his voice now from that small effort. But even then, the pilot leans down to rub at the grime that seems to be part of his visage these days. And ever so softly, barely heard at all, "Go to sleep, baby."

And he does, barely registering what the Texan called him, remembering only the tenderness with which it is said and the upper inflection on that last syllable that reminds him vaguely of a Thunderbird's shrill cry, fading, fading, fading…


	4. Chapter 4

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Murdock tucks Face in to sleep...

Things are vastly different ten years later, as he shifts and turns in the large feather top bed of the opulent suite at the Stardust in Vegas. He's scammed one of the best rooms, with one of the best views, with some of the best amenities you could ask for. Jacuzzi tubs, a full bar, even a terrace, and there is no chill thanks to the warm down comforters and the plush navy carpet on the floor. They're living like kings, just for the weekend, just for the job, and he's supposed to be reveling in this fact because this, all of this, fits his champagne tastes perfectly, right down to the bottle of Dom Perignon in the fridge.

Yet while the room he is sharing with Murdock has two double beds, each with their own pile of pillows and fluff of blankets to create their own comfortable nest, he can’t get to sleep.

He blames the Colonel.

It’s all Hannibal’s fault that he can’t focus on the down comforter or the 600 count sheets. The Colonel has it in his head that of course Face can scam them a casino tomorrow, because of course they need the entire casino floor in order to pull off the con. That’s reasonable, right? And they don’t need just any casino, but the Dunes, and who the hell plans on using a whole casino floor for catching a kidnapper? Does the old man even know what kind of security he’s going to have to bypass and bullshit away for this to work?

Sometimes he really does wonder if Hannibal doesn’t overestimate his skill.

The sheer scale of the con is making his head spin, not helped by two night caps of bourbon, and he groans, shifting in the soft, soft sheets and letting his head loll to the side as he turns to face the other double bed for the millionth time that hour.

He’s surprised when he finds two eyes peeking out from a veritable mountain of pillows. He had thought for sure that Murdock was asleep, particularly after the three drinks and B.A. threatening to hang the pilot by the ankles off the balcony just to get the Texan to go to bed. But no, here were those brown eyes, growing larger as Murdock’s head emerged from his nest.

“You all right, Faceman, muchacho?”

“Yeah, yeah, sorry. Didn’t mean to wake you up,” he says, guilt and trepidation coming through in his voice. He hadn’t meant to wake up the pilot, and he definitely isn’t ready to calm that mania down again.

Murdock extracts himself from his nest, a twisted pile of down comforter and pillows that protect the Texan from the desert winter night. He personally thinks the man is crazy, going to bed with long pants and socks on under all that fabric, but he won’t begrudge the man what he wants. The V.A. issued bed can’t be that comfortable, so Murdock must take it where he can get it.

“It’s ok,” Murdock yawns, hair sticking up in gnarled curls as he stretches.

And the man flashes him a smile, the same one that he gets every time he steps onto V.A. property. The one that never holds a grudge or harbors resentment towards him, the one that says he's absolutely wanted and, loved? No, not love, because this is Murdock, and Murdock likes everyone. Adored, perhaps. But which ever it is, it's that smile and that glint in those eyes that make him feel like he is exactly where he needs to be, and it's what finds him at the V.A. on weekdays these days, visiting between jobs more and more often...

Murdock's voice brings him back. “You not sleeping, muchacho?”

“I will soon,” he assures the pilot, slightly amused despite himself at the slight slur in that drawl. “Go to sleep, buddy. We’ve got a long day ahead of us.”

But Murdock is folding his arms over the highest pillow, resting his head on that pale skin and watching him with soulful eyes slightly glazed from not quite full wakefulness and alcohol. “You do too, Faceman. So what’s on your mind, on your brain, knocking around the old noodle, penny for your thoughts?”

He groans and flops back to stare at the ceiling, because where does he start? “It’s nothing, Murdock.”

“Ain’t nothin’ if you ain’t sleepin’.” There’s a pause, but not one long enough for him to say anything. “You thinkin’ about tomorrow? About shooting some craps, dealing some cards, laying some Aces, flushing those royals?”

He sighs, though he has to smile a bit. “We aren’t gambling, Murdock, we’re supposed to be dealing with Longmore.”

Murdock waves this off though. "Doesn't mean we've got to be dealers the whole time we're here! Besides, my lucky quarter's just begging me to get played in the slots. Got a winner for sure, Face."

He's not going to ask how Murdock knows the quarter is lucky. It's better not to ask sometimes, particularly this late at night with a slightly drunk pilot. "We'll have to be sure we hit the slots then, huh, buddy? Where do you want to play it?"

A nod meets that and he notices with more amusement now that Murdock is slipping off the pillows to the left, the pilot not noticing so intently is he thinking. "The Sahara, of course!" The Texan perks up a bit, scrambles to right himself. "Did you know that the Sahara is one of the places the Rat Pack played?"

Ah, well, that explains why the pilot wants to go to that particular one...all the way at the other end of the strip. "I did not."

Murdock yawns again, eyes blinking heavily. "And that Ocean's Eleven movie filmed there, did you know that?"

He can barely remember the movie, so long ago, but he knows what's coming next as the pilot says, a bit loudly, "Hey! Hey Faceman, are we Ocean's Eleven? Except more like Hannibal's Four, with Hannibal as Danny, because the Boss always has a plan, and you as his right hand man Jimmy, and B.A. has to be Josh cause B.A. drives big stuff, and I'll be Sam because B.A.’s always entertained by me."

The pilot looks pleased with himself, even though he's now half laying on his pillows, arms over the edge and hair in the definite makings of a hot, tangled mess. But even sleepy and tipsy the pilot is throwing him a grin, a conspiratorial grin that is letting Face in to Murdock's world, making him an accomplice on this revolutionary assigning of roles. He knows he's going to hear about letting this idea grow tomorrow, but there's not much he can do when he's given that smile. Because, really, there's something electric about being let in to that mad brilliance that is Murdock; something exhilarating and affirming about being deemed special enough to be acknowledge and placed so firmly into someone's world.

Something nice about knowing he always has a sure place in someone's mind.

So he smiles. "Sounds good, buddy." But they really do need to get to sleep. "Why don't we get some sleep and think about how we're going to get past security tomorrow?"

Murdock tilts his head. "We could start right now, Faceman! I already got a few plans. See, if we get B.A. a really big stick-."

"But I need sleep, buddy," he says gently, firmly. "And you do too. We can't have our entertainer falling asleep on his crowd, can we?"

That gets Murdock to think for a minute before he sighs, deeply, dramatically, a fake East Coast ring to his voice. "I suppose we can't. I wouldn't want to disappoint the house!"

Much better, especially as the pilot begins to withdraw back to the nest of pillows. "You'll be a hit, buddy."

"Good night, Faceman."

"Good night, Murdock."

And the room falls silent once more, uncomfortably so, broodingly so, and though Murdock has managed to distract him up until then, quite suddenly his mind is wanting to open up that age old issue again of competence, and he groans and rolls over. Maybe another pillow, or another shift this way. How does the pilot fall asleep so fast?

He doesn't notice that Murdock is standing over him until he turns back, frustrated that another pillow did not in fact help. He almost jumps out of his skin at that tall lanky form just standing there. "Jesus God almighty, Murdock!"

Murdock chuckles, maybe giggles, just a bit, and he leans over to wave a finger in admonishment. "Now now, Face, the nuns wouldn't be very happy to hear that, would they?"

Forget the nuns. "What are you doing, Murdock?"

"You keep shifting." As if that's explanation enough to be standing over his bed, silently, at this hour.

He opens his mouth to ask for more explanation or for the pilot to please, please go to bed. But he doesn't say anything as Murdock leans over a bit more and gently pushes Face to lay down. Despite the layers and the thick t-shirt, the one with the falcon on it from some high school or another, the pilot's fingers are cool and as they splay out over his bare chest he can't help but shiver, a fact not unnoticed by the Texan. "Sorry, mah hands are imitatin' ice cubes again."

And Murdock grins at the look of surprise that is still on his face, the one that rapidly turns into a blush. But the pilot doesn't tease, doesn't say anything. Instead, he reaches down and pulls up the cover properly, fluffing it so it falls with a gentle touch before his cold hands work.

"Murdock..." Because really, he's how old now? He doesn't need to be tucked in.

But the pilot ignores him and continues to layer and tuck, clucking his tongue at his arms, "Up", and effectively tucking him into the cool, smooth sheets and the sinfully warm duvet. And he wonders just how many times Murdock has done this for him now. How many times he's been tucked in and felt this same feeling of anchoring, of security, as he feels the fabric bunch in snugly and watches that long curve of Murdock's back bends to get at his legs. All these years later and he still finds that this, ritual almost, inspires so much peace.

Even before Murdock finishes he finds himself settling more surely than he has in a bed for awhile, and as those brown eyes turn back to him he realizes something else is settling as well. A feeling in the pit of his stomach that is warm and hot and making his skin shiver from something that isn't chill as those long fingers reflexively brush over his forehead. "There now, all snug and what? Told you it'd get chilly."

He's not sure what this shiver is, or why it's so familiar. Why he feels like he knows what it is. But it's certainly a funny little thing, that feeling, just as funny as how he's now yawning and finding it hard to keep his eyes focused on Murdock. "It's not that cold..."

The Texan just smiles, wavering just the tiniest of bits. "You can thank me when you don't have pneumonia in the mornin'."

There's a stretch of silence now as they both look at one another, as if waiting for something to happen that Face isn't quite sure he should be excited or apprehensive for. Murdock even reaches out with his hand, tentative, leaning in slightly with a crossed look of confusion and unease. There's something, something precariously close to churning forth from those brown eyes, something struggling, and he can't help but feel slightly agitated as Murdock's hand hovers in the stillness.

But whatever it is, it comes and goes, and Murdock simply reaches out to pat his head, face changing to display a small grin, teasing light appearing in those eyes. "Stay, Faceman." Then, softer, something different peeking through those warm brown irises. Regret? Must just be the alcohol… "Night."

And the pilot is gone with a rustle back under his own covers, curling and rolling until his own tall form finds that pocket of heat again.

He's still wondering about that silence, about this heat in himself that is fluttering, and trying to determine why he's still thinking about those fingers on his forehead. But he yawns again and closes his eyes against the expensive wall paper and gilded mirror in the room and he doesn't wonder for much longer. Instead, the thoughts drift away on a familiar falcon as his subconscious realizes he's no longer worried about tomorrow. 

He'll manage.

He always does.


	5. Chapter 5

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> Five times Murdock tucks Face in to sleep...

"Hannibal, I still don't see why we can't just con a hotel room."

Yes, it's a whine, but god damn it, who in their right now chooses to spend the night in a car of any kind when there's a perfectly good hotel two miles back?

Hannibal shifts in the shotgun seat, one leg on the dash as he tries to get comfortable. "Because, Face, since you seemed to have missed that two hour chase we just had with Decker, that's the only hotel in the area, and it'll be the first place he'll check."

They're all in the van, B.A. in the driver's seat, seat as far back as it can go as he tries not to shuffle against the horn by accident. Murdock is watching the words fly between him and the Colonel, wrapped up in a spare blanket from the back from underneath a pulled down baseball cap. And he, well, he's trying to get comfortable against the window, arms crossed even as he rearranges his Merino wool pants. Hannibal was lucky wool didn't crease too badly, or he'd have a lot more to say. He still has a lot to say, and he's going to say it until he catches B.A.'s black eyes in the mirror, glowering at him.

"Face, this ain't comfy for any of us, so shut up and go to sleep before I help you out." B.A. is cranky, always is when there's these camp outs in his van as it means food and water being passed around the clean interior.

Right.

He slumps back with an irritated sigh and crosses his arms once more, just for emphasis. B.A. isn't paying attention, however, and the Colonel doesn't show that he saw. That just leaves Murdock to reach a hand out from his wrappings to pat Face's shoulder. "There there, Faceman, it ain't so bad. We'll pretend we're camping in a tent, fire smoldering just out those doors, burnt marshmallow in the air, the sound of Bigfoot in the distance..."

"Crazy fool, we ain't in the woods, and don't you go starting in on Bigfoot! I'm tryin' ta sleep here, man!"

He rolls his eyes and lets B.A. dig his own grave, because if he'd just let it go, the inevitable wouldn't happen.

"Aw, come on big guy! You never know, Bigfoot has relatives you know! The Yeti in Tibet, Hibagon in Japan, Nuk-luk to our Northern neighbors, Yeren in China, Batutut in 'Nam-"

"Ok, now I know you're makin' this up," B.A. grunts, hunkering down further in his blanket.

"Chuchunya in Siberia-"

"Shut up, Murdock! I don't care what it's called anywhere else, it don't make it any more real there than it is here. And Bigfoot don't exist!"

"Don't gotta shout, B.A." And the pilot scrunches back into the seat himself, throwing Face a smile.

Face smiles back, gives the pilot a nod even at reducing the Sergeant to a grumbling hulk, and leans back himself into matted grey seat. He'd really rather be at a hotel, where he can stretch out his knee which he refuses to believe is giving him problems because he's too young for that. Much too young. Because if joints are starting to go, it won't be long before his hair...

He shudders at the thought until a blanket is shoved under his nose, accompanied with a, "Here ya go, Faceman."

Murdock smiles at him, leaning over the aisle and holding out the scratchy fabric like it's the most important thing to see Face in it, right this second. "Gotta stay warm now that the fire's out."

B.A. groans and shifts as far away as he can get at that even as Face snorts. "Thanks, buddy."

It is scratchy, and smells slightly of gun oil, making him wrinkle his nose. But Murdock is watching him expectantly and he does have to admit it is a bit chilly. So he half-heartedly unwraps it and lets it settle over his legs, trying not to think about the heater that would be in even a basic motel room, like the one in the town they passed.

There's a long few moments of silence punctured only by various people shifting. He tosses and turns a bit in the seat, trying to find a comfortable spot, moving his lower back one way and shoulders another in attempt to sleep at an angle. But it's impossible, just damn impossible, and probably one of the more uncomfortable sleeping arrangements he's slept-in in awhile.

"Faceman." It's an urgent, low whisper that's trying too hard to be quiet.

It can only belong to one person.

He glances over at the culprit. "Yeah?"

Murdock is smashed against the other wall, watching him from over the corner of his worn yellow blanket. "You asleep?"

He resists rolling his eyes even as a smile starts to form. "No, Murdock, I'm not."

"Oh." A pause, then, "You going to go to sleep any time soon?"

He thinks about that, looks down at his own navy blanket, then out the window to the frosting windows. Out to the black, expansive landscape of the middle of fuck no where. "No, probably not."

The pilot brightens, his head popping up a bit more from his nest. "Want to tell ghost stories?"

His eyes flick to the front, where B.A. is unmoving and Hannibal's hand is starting to slip off the arm rest. There's nothing else to do, and a glance at his watch shows they've got at least five hours to day light. "Why not?"

"Great!" Murdock leans back even further, legs folding up to bring his knees to his chest. Socked feet wiggle in excitement. "You go first."

Shit. "It was your idea!"

"Yeah, but I suggested it, so I get to choose who goes first." Murdock raises an eyebrow at him, daring him to challenge it.

He sighs. "I don't know any off the top of my head."

"Come on, Face, it's easy. Not that hard to make up a good story. You do it all the time."

That's only partially true. His cons don't require the same creativity that Murdock is looking for, and he opens his mouth to say so. But even as he does, Murdock raises his eyebrow further and he realizes that, well, maybe it does. Just in a different form. "Fine."

He settles back and thinks even as Murdock readjusts himself, this time leaning into the seat to be closer to Face. A glance over reveals those brown eyes fixated on him, trusting, expecting, watching with every bit of concentration in the man. In fact, the pilot is so attentive that his body is one fixed line, tense straining forward for Face's words.

The sight sets twinges off in his mind, confusion through his head as to why exactly something about this scene makes him want to desperately be Mark Twain, or Faulkner, or Poe, someone who knows a story that would please the pilot. Because that's all he wants in this brief second, is to make that face smile by the end.

He shakes his head, shakes off the feeling, which Murdock misinterprets with a pout. "Aww, come on, Face."

"No, it's not that, it's..." But he doesn't know how to explain it.

Murdock is shifting again, back a bit, eyes softening. "It's ok, Face. I'll go first." The man clears his throat and is off before he can even respond. "Ok, there's this young boy and his dog, let's call him Billy. And this boy, let's call him Temp, are lost in the forest."

He's already raising an eyebrow. "Wait, why do I have to be the boy? And why are you the dog?"

"I'm not in the story, Face! It's just a character who happens to be named after Billy." The pilot looks indignant. “Besides, it’s a perfectly good name.”

Right. He rolls his eyes, but Murdock is giving him a huffed look, however, and he relents. It's not like it matters, anyway. "All right, all right." So he leans back. "Continue."

"Thank you," Murdock says pointedly before clearing his throat. "Anyway, Billy and Temp are walking through this forest, lost as can be, just as night is fallin'. And as they realize they're goin' to have to spend the night there, Billy turns to Temp and says-"

B.A. groans, an angry bubble of noise. "Murdock, you're askin' for it man."

And even Hannibal shifts, saying simply, firmly, "Captain. Lieutenant."

It's enough to get them both grinning at each other and after another few long moments Face finds himself leaning across the aisle, head inches from a similarly leaning pilot. "So?"

"We'll get in trouble, Faceman." But Murdock is exuding amusement and when Face leans in further the pilot continues. "Well, Billy says 'Temp, I don't like the looks of these woods. They say a mean ol' witch lives here.' But you see, Temp is a real brave guy, and he pats Billy on the head and tells him, 'Now Billy, don't you worry. I'll be right by your side, and together we'll get through here, safe and sound. Don't you worry, buddy.'"  
He's noticing a trend in 'Temp's' voice, mainly that it sounds somewhat like him. No, actually, a lot like him. And Billy seems to have a very exaggerated Texan drawl. Ok, he'll bite. "And so what happens?"

The pilot smiles, waggling his eyebrows as his voice lowers. "Well, they walk and walk and walk, but the woods are gettin' thick and before they know it the night is black and there's footsteps followin' them. Every time they turn, though, there's nothing there..."

Murdock's eyes are wide, fingers spread into waving shadows as he illustrates just how spooky the situation is. But even though he's nodding at this, he can't work himself up to be scared because of the pilot. The Texan is so close he can feel warm breath between them, can smell that leather jacket and for a moment he's not here but back in that jungle, that jacket tucked around him as it rains.

And there's nothing scary about that, nothing at all.

"Now Temp tells Billy, 'You just stay with me, stay behind me boy, and we'll catch it as it comes 'round the bend.' And Billy nods, cause Temp's the bravest guy he knows, and if anyone's goin' to beat the witch, it'll be him."

The pilot glances to him, to see if he still has his attention, which he does. Particularly at those words, and he blinks, finds himself asking quietly, surprised. "You think I'm brave?"

Murdock gives him a funny look, as if he's unsure how to answer. "Face, it's a story about a boy and his dog." But silence stretches quite suddenly and as Face leans back, unsure if he should be hurt or not, Murdock answers, quietly. "You don't think you're brave?"

"I never said that."

"But you implied it by askin' if I think you are." Now Murdock is frowning, looking him over, concerned. "Why don't you think you're brave, Faceman?"

He shrugs, the conversation a bit more heavy than he was anticipating this evening. "It's not that, Murdock..." He's never really thought about the issue, though. Is he brave? Sometimes. But mostly he just does the job that needs to be done. Sure, he'll say he's brave to get a woman in his arms, but does he always believe it, not really.

It's as if Murdock can read his mind, however, because the pilot is leaning so far forward now that a long hand is bracing itself on his seat. "Faceman, why don't you think you're brave?"

He blinks at the sudden closeness and feels the back of his head bump against the cold glass. "Uh, Murdock, it's really not a big deal." But to Murdock it is, he can see the insistence in the man's eyes before the pilot even talks. So he sighs and tries to run a hand through his hair. "I just get the job done, Murdock, just like you and B.A. and Hannibal. It's not like I'm any more brave than you three. It's just what we do."

Murdock's expressive face morphs a few times, first into a frown, then a more thoughtful look, then into a bright smile. "Faceman, you know we're extraordinary, right?"

He just stares at that.

"We ain't like normal people, Faceman. And that's partially because we're ourselves, just as our mama's made us and just as we made ourselves. The same constituents that make everyone a unique, singular being on this whole wide earth. But what makes us stand out, Faceman, is the fact that we do somethin' that a lot of people couldn't imagine doing in our shoes. I mean, look at us, Face!"

The excitement in Murdock's voice causes B.A. and Hannibal to shift, and with a guilty duck of his head, Murdock glances sideways at the front seat as he continues, marginally quieter. "We help people even though we ain't exactly always in a place to be doin' so. You all give up dreams every time we do one of these gigs, and it's hard enough for people to follow their own dreams as is, much less give 'em up, willingly, on a regular basis."

Light fingers reach up to brush bangs away from his face and he lets them because he's never seen Murdock like this, never this intense over words that aren't from a book or a show or about one of the two. "Faceman, that makes you one of the kindest, most self-sacrificing martyr of a man I've ever know. Don't you ever think of yourself as anythin' but brave and extraordinary."

He's silent, stunned, where did this come from? He can't say it didn't effect him, because his chest is heavy with emotion and his hands are supporting himself against the van seat and wall in tense, sharp lines. But what has him more wide eyed is the fact that Murdock thinks those things...about him. Him, the blond haired boy who was never good enough to take home, the teen who wasn't good enough to marry, the soldier not good enough to believe.

Yet here was a man who knew all that, who saw him through some of the darkest times, calling him someone extraordinary. Beyond the cut and the fold.

Something special.

And it's not often that he's called that.

"Murdock, I..." But he's too overcome to finish, and he doesn't really know what to say anyway.

Murdock knows, he always knows what he's trying to say, and just smiles at him, leaning in closer. "Yeah." A slightly chilled hand pats his cheek. "You are."

They stare at one another for a few long moments before he smiles at that lopsided grin, and feels a rush inside of him at the fact that the air between them is charged like a lightning rod. Charged with more emotion than he can comprehend, both in his own blue eyes and those warm brown eyes across from him. Those accepting, loving brown eyes, that take it all in and pick out the good and forgive the bad.

And just as Murdock leans in a bit more, eyes a bit more serious, determined, lips moving to speak of those strong static undercurrents, his chest freezing at the upcoming words-

Lightning flashes and a winter wind hits the van, rocking it slightly.

They both snap back in surprise, eyes widening and blankets flying. Upon hearing the distant peal of thunder, the wind howling around them in angry whines, they both look at one another. And though the moment is lost, things dying down for another day perhaps, both of them are flushed, chests still, eyes wide, and there's something funny about all of it. Maybe it's because they're both unsure, giddiness over riding the awkwardness of unsaid currents, or maybe it's just the fact that they're both wide eyed like teens who have just heard the scary part of the story.

Either way, it causes them both to break out in uncontrollable laughs that quickly spiral from muffled to echoing peals. Loud enough to wake the front seat within seconds.

"All right, that's it, you both goin' to feel my hands knockin' your heads together!"

"Boys, do I need to separate you two?"

And though they do manage to reign it in just a bit at the Colonel's bark, those older blue eyes narrowed enough to get them back and sitting straight into their respective seats, they keep stealing glances at one another, sending new spasms of laughter through them both. B.A. turns back around, mumbling about the legalities of homicide while Hannibal readjusts himself with his other leg on the dash this time as they both struggle to breathe.

The wind keeps up, though, howling and wailing as they both finally manage to inhale a full lungful of air, then another, then another.

But he's restless now, sneaking furtive glances at the pilot and catching those brown eyes doing the same. And after a few minutes, he whispers, "So?"

Murdock gives him a shh gesture. "You're going to get us in trouble!" 

He can only waggle his eyebrows in imitation of the pilot earlier. To hell with the consequences.

At that disregard the Texan raises his eyebrows and tries not to smile. "What?"

"How does the story end?"

The pilot just grins, a languid curve of his lips that hide something in the corners. "They live happily ever after."

Not really what he expected, and he raises an eyebrow. "Is that how all ghost stories end? Without a witch or even a ghost? And happily?"

His answer is the pilot glancing to the front seat before moving quietly toward him. Those brown eyes have gone soft, almost...almost sad? And there are no words, not at first. Instead, the pilot picks at his blanket, moving, tucking, smoothing the folds around Face. Tucking him in to that space between the chair and the window. And he can only stare, not sure why Murdock is doing this. But he knows to wait.

He's not disappointed. "Not everything has to end how you expect it to, Faceman. Makes things more interesting that way."

A bright smile meets him as he blinks at the pilot in front of him. "Of course. Right."

And Murdock chuckles, just once, brushes his bangs back and around, fingers trailing just for a second over the shell of his ear as those brown eyes stay fixed on his own blue. Then, quite suddenly, in what appears to be a feat of courage, the pilot's hand curves around the back of his head, leaning him in slightly as Murdock leans forward to plant a light kiss on the top of his head.

He's too shocked to do much but stare, even as the pilot pulls back immediately, recoiling as if afraid, but saying with a smile that is shaky only if you know what that particular twitch means, "To keep the bad thoughts out, Faceman."

And with that, Murdock leans back to his own corner of the van, drawing his knees close and pulling his own blanket tight around him as he turns to face the wall, yawning a bit too loudly. "Night, Face. Sweet dreams."

Wind howls as he slumps back and another flash of lightning shows that the pilot has gone still, chest rising and falling too fast to be asleep. He feels like he should say something, should address what just happened, should ask what it meant. If it really was simply a talisman against evil.

But something holds him back, some unease, or perhaps just the fact that his whole body is anchored where it is by familiar warmth and security, complemented by the slight pressure he can still feel on his head. And he's not entirely sure why that kiss is more comforting than odd, but it is, and maybe it's just because it's from Murdock and Murdock can't be anything but safe to him.

 

Which is part of the reason why he just relaxes into the blanket and the seat, scrunching down into the folds of fabric and watching the pilot's chest slow in the flashes of lightning. And as the thunder grows louder, wind screeching in a way that is faintly avian in ways, he wonders into the night, even after his eyes close, if perhaps this warm feeling isn't from being tucked in. Isn't from a blanket, or a jacket, or an action.

Perhaps it comes from something much deeper...

This funny little thing has turned very large indeed.


	6. Chapter 6

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and the one time Face tucks in Murdock.

It’s been fourteen years since they’ve been on the run and they still have problems with the fact that every time they fight goons, goonish things happen.

Like hanging people from a tree.

People like Murdock.

There are several things he could say about Murdock and BA's ability to get into trouble when taking an excursion by themselves. In fact, he's ready to ban them from doing just that at the rate they’re going. Oh, he knows this wasn't meant to go like this, that they didn’t expect things to be this bad, the rational part of his mind knows these facts and accepts them. It could happen to anyone. But still, as he kneels in the dirt, pulling the course noose off of Murdock's neck, he can feel that post-adrenaline fear mixing and muddling itself up with the initial rage at the events that have occurred, his hands shaking though whether from nerves or anger he's not sure. A kaleidoscope of conflicting feelings and desires ranging from wanting to beat the shit out of something and collapse on the ground with the pilot, preferably holding that lanky form in his arms and never letting go.

All shattered into singular, clarified worry when the pilot curls toward him and coughs roughly, hoarsely, drawing in shaky breaths to a throat that is, too slowly, learning it is open.

"Murdock!" That was BA, struggling even as Hannibal works to undo the rope. "You ok, man?"

"He's fine, he's fine," he reassures, a hand running down the pilot's shoulder soothingly, down an arm to the knots at the Texan's wrists. "You're ok, buddy."

There are a few more coughs before air rattles more evenly into the Southerner's lungs, and though he feels a pang at seeing those brown eyes glistening, tears collecting in the corners, he is more relieved than anything else when a raspy retort is breathed out. "Just hangin' around, Faceman..."

A horrible joke that he doesn't really find funny, no not at all. "Jesus, Murdock."

But the pilot is grinning shakily into the dirt, bringing his hands up to rub at his neck the minute Face has them freed, reassuring himself. "Gotta tell ya though, Face, I don’t think that’s what they mean by hangin’ loose..."

More coughing occurs as he helps Murdock sit up, not taking no for an answer when the pilot tries to wave him off, his own heart still pounding and Murdock's too as evident by the quick, pulsating vein in the pilot's neck. He takes the moment to brush off bits of twig and dirt from the cheap suit Murdock has on and as the Texan takes in another few deep breaths he pulls aside the shirt collar a bit to get a look at the damage. Angry red rope burn, nothing serious but already bruising under his light finger tips. 

He could hurt someone for less than this, but for this? 

He feels like he could kill.

And that scares him a bit, the intensity of this rage. This possessive rage that he tries to rationalize is a response that would happen no matter who it was tied to that tree: B.A., Hannibal, a client. But somewhere inside, the little voice that always knows asks in a familiar snarky tone when he’s going to stop lying to himself and admit that only with Murdock does his heart freeze like this.

Only with Murdock does his own life flash before his eyes every time the Texan faces a potential end.

"You all right, mudsucker?" Murdock croaks out as B.A. rushes over, the big guy trying to stay cool and look calm but belying his worry with his speed.

"Yeah, just a sore stomach, ain't much." B.A.'s voice lowers a fraction. "Didn't think they'd actually do it. You all right?"

Murdock just gives a sympathetic smile to the mechanic, waves away Face's fingers, and stands unsteadily to his feet. "Loose as a goose, big guy."

Which raises a groan from B.A. and an eye roll from himself, even as he fights to not close the gap between himself and the pilot. Fights to not blame B.A. for that ring of purple and blue around the Southerner’s neck.

Hannibal shakes his head, hooks a finger in his pocket, and scans the area slowly, blue eyes taking in the secluded woods, the spewed dirt and gravel from the overgrown path that are testament to two large vans being driven through. "Guess we're camping tonight, boys."

He groans at that, hates camping, doesn't want to camp on the best of days, much less with a pale pilot and B.A. looking winded. Two down isn't exactly leaving them with great odds, should the men come back. "Hannibal, camping? Need I remind you that you have to be back on set well rested?"

But the Colonel just grins that eat-shit grin and sure enough they're moving the cars to a more secluded area off the road. Murdock and B.A. follow in the van as Hannibal explains the plan to him, how they're going to take shifts - first him, then Face, then B.A., then Murdock. And though he wants to protest that B.A. and Murdock need actual, comfortable sleep (but mostly Murdock), the argument is settled with a stern look from Hannibal and two chorused echoes from the two in question that they're fine, can take watch, could take watch earlier if need be.

Yet they finally settle in, settle down, and though he's surprised when Murdock volunteers to sleep in the catering truck with him he accepts it without questioning it. Would have argued for it anyway. He won't lie, he prefers having Murdock near right now, so he can check and make sure that lean chest is still moving, make sure he can still feel soft breathing on his hand.

The cabin is quiet enough, however, for him to simply listen to Murdock breathing, only an occasional wheeze sounding into the night, and he just listens for awhile as he leans back in the driver's seat, spare blanket wrapped around him and feet jammed uncomfortable under the wheel. He can make out the pilot in the faint moonlight, long body folded underneath a spare blanket, limbs poking out at odd angles in a collection of sharp angles and knobby lumps. The pilot's head is bowed to create a long arc from forehead to the base of the spine, skin almost luminescent in the faint light.

Relaxed, or so it seems, if you don't know to look for that clenched jaw, those tense shoulders, or structured breathing that follows a strict pattern.

In. Out. In. Out.

It's a picture of a man who is just holding it together, holding himself in to make sure all the pieces stay connected. And all because of some stupid goons with some stupid rope. There's nothing more he wants to do than help keep those slivers of Murdock together, wrap his arms around that lanky form and chase away the small shakes that, try as Murdock may, can't be hidden from him. But he’s not sure how to do so without acknowledging this thing inside him that he’s still so unsure, so uneasy about.

Feelings he’s uncertain if are acceptable to him, or to Murdock for that matter.

A shift breaks him out of his thoughts and as he sees Murdock's elbow move restlessly he speaks, softly. "Hey, Murdock?"

"Yeah?" Murdock answers quietly.

"You awake?"

It's reminiscent of another time, one that has Murdock snorting, "Sure am, muchacho." Then, a bit more serious, "Can't sleep. You?"

"Can't sleep either," he echoes. Then, unsure what else to say, he asks, again, "You doing ok?"

A huff meets that, then a light cough. "Yeah, I'm doin' just fine, Faceman. Thanks to you and Hannibal, though judgin' from the sharpshooting, 'm guessin' you're the reason I ain't still attached to that tree limb..."

There sounds like there should be more, but Murdock trails off there as his head turns to look out the dark windows at the dark landscape. He feels chills go down his own spine at the thought of what another few minutes could have meant. What kind of body he'd have here then, instead of the living, breathing, warm one he has now. Evidently Murdock is thinking the same thing as well as an obvious shiver goes through the pilot and fabric swishes as it’s bunched up tighter around bony shoulders.

"You cold?" He asks, lamely.

"I'll be all right. Ain't nothin' worrisome."

But it is, because he's starting to realize that he's become an expert in Murdock over the years, and right now he can see, even in this faint of light, how the pilot's shoulders are hunched too far down and the Texan's head is bowed too low. Subdued, much too subdued to be nothing.

So he does what he thinks is best and leans over to put a hand on the pilot's shoulder. He can feel the muscles tense underneath his hand, the slight shake in those limbs. “Hey.” Murdock’s head turns to him and he smiles, hoping it can be seen in the dark. “What are you thinking about?”

“It’s nothing, Face. Just go back to sleep.”

He’s not giving up though. This feeling in his chest won’t let him. “Buddy, come on.”

There’s a pause at that, a tad too long before Murdock answers, “Do you know how many expressions there are to ask that same question, Faceman? Penny for your thoughts, what’s up, nibbling your mind, what’s on your mind, eating your brain, rolling around, weighing on-”

“Murdock,” he says, trying to stop the flow, not liking the exasperation lurking in that tone.

“I’m just sayin’, of all the expressions available, you go with the least interesting one.”

He’s never been on the receiving end of Murdock’s frustration before, at least not like this, that cross tone directed at him, and to his embarrassment he finds himself snapping, “I wasn’t aware you needed wit to ask if a friend was doing all right. Dully noted.”

He sits back heavily, rocking the chair slightly, facing back out to the silent woods where Hannibal’s cigar is carefully concealed. Visible only to those trained to find such targets in the night, and only then the ones who know exactly at what angle to look.

Awkward silence stretches between them for a few more minutes until he hears a long, low sigh. “I’m sorry, Faceman.”

A sigh escapes him as well. “I am too, buddy. I didn’t mean that.”

“Deserved it,” Murdock murmurs quietly. Out of his peripheral he can see the pilot squirm before settling, facing him slightly. “It’s just…can’t sleep, Face. I just can’t. And it ain’t nightmares this time, or sugar too close to bed time, or even a racing mind that doesn’t want to settle down into some nice R&R.”

It doesn’t leave many options for it to be. “Well, you’ve had an exciting day, Murdock…”

“That’s just it. I’m tired, Faceman. I feel like I could sleep a day.” When he glances over he thinks he can make out creases in the corner of the Texan’s eyes. Truth with physical proof. “Just…every time I close my eyes, I’m fallin’, and I’m not so sure I’ll hit ground anymore. And if I’m not fallin’, I keep expecting to be.”

The car is quiet, crickets chirping in the distance, leaves rustling in the light breeze, and he frowns at this admission. Feels anger boiling up at the people who did this, made even sleep unsafe for a man who wouldn’t harm a golf ball, even if he wasn’t part of the Liberation Army. “Murdock…”

The pilot looks disappointed, catching him off guard, his trail of thought gone as the Texan turns away. “I’ll be all right though, Faceman.” Then a bright smile that doesn’t quite make it to those brown eyes is flashed at him. “Besides, you and Hannibal are here now, and B.A. too. Nothings going to happen so long as we’re all here.”

And that could be it. He could drop it now, let the pilot resettle, go back to falling into an uncomfortable sleep himself. Wake up in the morning to what he knows will be a Murdock that is closer to the one he flies paper airplanes with from the V.A. roof or sets up make-shift, home made fireworks with on a job. But he can’t sit here and watch this, can’t sit by, not after that look, that disappointment in that voice that will haunt him for much longer than it should.

“Murdock,” he tries again, this time shedding the spare blanket to reach across the aisle. To clasp a hand on that still tense shoulder. “It is not all right. You’re not all right.”

“That’s the general consensus,” Murdock drawls, unable to keep a bit of surprise out of his voice as he looks at Face’s hand. “They don’t hand out the title of crazy for nothing, after all.”

“I thought it was Howling Mad.”

There’s a faint grin at that, a genuine one, and he eases back into the conversation at hand with that, on a better, more manageable note. “Murdock, you won’t fall.”

“I know that, Face, I-”

But he doesn’t let Murdock finish, instead leaning in closer, uncomfortably so across the stick shift, not caring that his back will scream at him tomorrow. It’s worth it so he can bring his other hand to the pilot’s face, warm palm to cool cheek, a sensation that causes both him and the Texan to pause and stare across the darkness at each other.

He tries not to think about that heat rising in his chest, how his hand fits there so well, could stay for longer than he plans on it being there. “You won’t fall because I won’t let you.”

“I know none of you would…” Murdock says, licking his lips and shifting slightly.

But not shifting away.

So he inhales deeply, summons the words from somewhere deep. “None of us would, buddy. But I’m not going to let you fall even in here, either.” It hurts him to remove his palm, but he does to tap the pilot’s forehead.

To his surprise, Murdock gives a strange little laugh, one he hasn’t heard before, melancholy almost. Disbelief. “No offense, Faceman, but just how are you going to do that?”

He hadn’t exactly thought that far, hadn’t planned it to go this route mostly because he hadn’t really planned anything at all. Had just said what needed to be said. What he wanted to say. 

What he meant.

His hesitance gets a regretful smile from Murdock and a cool, nimble hand to his face as he leans back a bit. “It’s a nice thought, Face, and I appreciate it.” That melancholy creeps back. “I’ll be all right, though.”

And Murdock tries once more to close the case. Leans back into his space and rests his head on the still new upholstery, brown eyes closing to shut out the disappointment. That resigned acceptance that has no right to be there.

No right at all.

It’s the shifting blanket that springs an idea into his mind however of how to even try to back up his claim. A stupid, trivial, funny little thing of an idea that he sounds a lot more confident about than he is when he says, “Lean back, buddy.”

Murdock eyes snap open to shoot him a confused look, but the pilot obliges, uncurling and unfolding just a bit. He’s leaning over the Texan in seconds, moving himself to be in direct line of sight to those widened eyes. “We’re going to run a con, buddy. And I need your help.”

It’s not the line of thought Murdock had been expecting, as the pilot fidgets and his eyes skitter away for just a moment. “All right…but who or what exactly are we runnin’ this con on, Faceman?”

He smiles, leans in, taps the Texan’s forehead gently. “You.”

The pilot furrows his eyes, not angry, just unsure. “Why?”

“Because, you’re stuck on thinking you’re still…there.” He can’t bring himself to say it properly. “And if I can’t convince you, I’ll have to con you into believing you aren’t.”

He doesn’t let Murdock say anything, just begins to move, fluffing the blanket out over the exposed Texan’s form. “So we’re going to put you to bed. Because we both know beds aren’t in trees, and you can’t be tucked in when you’re out on a limb.”

He pats down the air pockets, folds the fabric around that long torso, tucks in the ends up around those shoulders, moving slowly and remembering the hands that have done this to him and mimicking their patterns. Creating that anchor that has held him to the here and now so many times before.

Brown eyes just stare at him in surprise as he readjusts the end one last time. “And of course, a bed isn’t complete without a pillow.” His jacket is off in seconds, wadded up with a silent apology to his tailor and slid under the pilot’s head. “There. Comfortable?”

Murdock has trouble getting the words out. “Yeah…” Gravelly with shock.

He can work with that. “Good.” He leans in, forcing his hand to move to brush through the pilot’s hair. Purely platonic. For the con, he tells himself. “Now what happens next?”

The pilot fidgets a bit, glancing away for a moment, biting his lip. “Well, I don’t rightly know, Faceman. What do you think?”

It comes to him quickly, though it takes him a moment to tell himself that there’s nothing awkward about it. Nothing wrong with it. Not when the pilot has done it to him. So he takes a breath, moves his hand to brace himself, and leans in to place a light kiss on Murdock’s forehead.

“To keep evil away,” he explains softly.

Wide brown eyes stare at him and neither one of them is breathing, he realizes. For a moment, he’s afraid, so very afraid that he’s taken this too far, tried too hard. Taken a chance on something that he’s suddenly not so sure about. Ruined something that was good in the pursuit of something uncertain.

Then, quietly, comes, “Face?”

He almost can’t speak. “Yeah?”

And something in those brown eyes changes, from shock to a hesitancy mirrored in his own. “That particular charm works better when applied lower on the countenance.” Then, a bit stronger. “It’s more convincing that way…”

It takes his mind a moment to process those words, to realize exactly what Murdock could mean. And though he can feel fear coursing through him, mixing with the excitement in the heat of his chest, he fights through both to keep calm and collected and to not assume, because what if he’s wrong?

But he does lean down to kiss the pilot’s nose, hesitant, trying not to be. “There?”

A faint smile. “Bit further, Face.”

Permission.

Or perhaps an acknowledgement of what things have been leading up to. Where things have slowly taken them through the years, over a long road of looks and small touches and soft words in the dark. Of decades of Murdock telling him without words what has taken him this long to realize is being said.

“I see.” And he does. He really does.

He leans in and for the first time in a long time he’s shy as he kisses a target.

Kisses Murdock.

It doesn’t last long, can’t last long, because he’s unused to the feel of stubble on his chin and the strength in the returned kiss that only a man can possess. And part of him is still not sure, so uneasy over this because it’s Murdock. The man he’s been through hell with, the pilot who has saved his ass over and over and whose rear he’s pulled out of so many fights and fires before that he’s lost count. Someone who has seen him at the lowest and his highest, his worst and his best. Not someone he’d consider in this way normally.

But who better to think of like that, his mind asks.

And he doesn’t really have a good answer to that.

Murdock’s eyes are lidded when he finally opens his own and they regard each other for a long moment in the suddenly warmer air.

Then Murdock smiles, genuinely, amused. “You lied, Faceman.”

It’s his turned to be confused. “What? When?”

That smile just grows though as Murdock’s eyes close. “That’s not a con.” And he has to blink as the pilot’s breathing evens out. Has nothing to say when Murdock adds, quietly, “But it’s some mighty powerful convincing.”

“Glad I could help…” He moves back, away, finding himself to be the shaky one now. “Anytime.”

“That a promise?”

He only has to think for a moment. “Yeah, it is.”

“Good.” And Murdock is fading, he can tell, as the pilot settles into that feeling of comfort he knows so well. One that comes from a funny little thing as simple as a blanket tucked in around your shoulders by someone you love.

And as the pilot’s breathing levels out, easy now and free of that harshness he can’t quite forget from earlier, he leans back himself and buries his own body into the blankets. Facing toward Murdock the whole while. While he can’t get that image of the pilot hanging so cruelly by a simple rope, he finds that he also can’t forget the look in those brown eyes after that kiss. That look that can only be described as affection and adoration built on years of trust and care. A feeling that has been in him for so long without a name that he’s almost overwhelmed to realize he’s known it all along. Just hasn’t had the courage to give it the title it deserves, to the person who deserves it.

But that will change, he tells himself as the wind flutters outside; like winds shifting in a down stroke. It has to change.

Because the source of comfort isn’t from being tucked in, he’s discovered. The source of comfort is the man in front of him. The one who knows when he’s upset. The one who knows why he’s upset. The one who knows how to make it better.

The one that he, possibly, maybe, sort of, kind of, probably loves.

And he’s not about to give that up anytime soon.


	7. Chapter 7

**Summary for the Chapter:**

> ...and the one time Face tucked in Murdock. Bonus ending! Not for the faint of heart.
> 
> WARNINGS: Major character death.

Forty years later, and they never did talk about that kiss he realizes as he stares at the numbers in front of him.

402.

Fourth floor, room two, on the left with the rest of the rooms, their plated door knobs all facing out, each door cracked the required few inches, each smelling like the new, sleek flooring and bright, white walls that mark the second renovation of this place since he first stepped foot in years and years ago. So much has changed about this place now, including the staff and the procedures and even the landscaping outside. But there’s still that sense of sterility here that no hospital ever seems to avoid, and he’s never been more aware of how it wears down on you until now. How there really is no comfort in it when it all comes to this.

It unnerves him and he sighs, wishes a lot of things that he can’t do anything about now. So he runs a hand through his grey hair, replaces his hat, and steps in through the door with resolve.

Not much has changed since he was here last night. Nothing’s been moved but a few of the machines, wires coiled neatly now and pushed away from the bed where Murdock is. The pilot himself is sitting up, looking out the window as the hiss of oxygen occasionally counters the soft blip of a heart monitor. And for a moment he can stand there and pretend that those eyes that turn toward him aren’t fuzzy, aren’t unfocused, aren’t slowly dimming.

Just for a moment, everything is back to the way he likes to remember it, as that smile that hasn’t changed spreads across the pilot’s face.

“Faceman.”

“Murdock.” He steps in, goes straight to the bed, to the chair waiting. “B.A. called me. Said you wanted me here…”

The mechanic had filled him in on a lot more than that when he came. Filled him in on how there wasn’t much time left. How the pilot knew and didn’t really want him to know. That this was probably the last time. That he and Frankie had already been in, Murdock had wanted him to come last, say it privately. All before…

Even in his head he can’t finish the thought.

Murdock is moving his hand, however, reaching for one of his that he gladly gives. “Thanks for coming.”

“Of course, buddy. Of course.” He squeezes that weak hand, gently, remembering when those fingers could move faster than his could have ever hoped to.

The pilot coughs a few times, settling back heavily into the pillows, and he waits patiently, riding out the spasms and keeping a firm grip on Murdock’s hand. It’s there in the Texan’s voice, creeping into that drawl like a snake that he can’t get at. Can’t fight. And already he feels tears in his eyes and nothing has been said but hellos.

Soon to be…

“Face.” Murdock’s voice is quiet now, serious. “You remember that time we had that job up in Alaska? With that one bush pilot?”

He has to smile a little, squeezes that hand. “The one who wouldn’t shut up?”

Murdock smiles. “Yeah. Only guy I found who I couldn’t keep up with. Kept thinking B.A. was going to pop him a good one.”

“He would have if Hannibal hadn’t been there.” And he remembers that too, how that pilot came close to death more time than he knows.

“Well, I kinda know how he feels.” He waits for the rest, staying quiet and pulling in closer. “Lots to say and not a lot of time…”

An admission of what this is. Something he doesn’t want but has to acknowledge because Murdock is asking him to, wants him to by the look in those beautiful brown eyes. “I see.”

He does, and Murdock knows he does now too. “Face, I’m sorry.”

“For what?”

“For asking you to be here…”

He’s shaking his head already though, laying another hand on the one he has. “No, buddy. I want to be here. I’m glad you called.” Even if his hands are shaking.

Murdock smiles again, faintly. “That’s why I love you, Faceman.” A long fingered hand trembles as it reaches up for his face, and he lets it settle there, leans down to meet it, lets it wipe away the tears that are falling. “Awww, now, don’t do that Face. I don’t like seein’ you like that.”

“Like I like seeing you like this?” His voice is hoarse, trying to stay light.

“You won’t see me like this forever,” Murdock says, quietly, eyes locked on his. “You’ve got me in all shapes and sizes and colors in here, muchacho.” The pilot taps his forehead. “And you can pull me out whenever you need an extra side of crazy in your life.”

He laughs, a broken, pale thing that is trying too hard to be a lot damn cheerier. “Pathfinder and all?”

“Pathfinder, Range Rider, Crazy Willie Bean and all.” That grin is back, memories in that alone that stretch back beyond when those facets of the pilot even existed.

“I’ll be sure to drive B.A. nuts with them all,” he manages to say.

“Good.” Murdock closes his eyes. “Very good. Big guy needs excitement in his life.”

He just nods, knows B.A. and Frankie are outside, waiting just down the hall. Will be in soon to be here. That there isn’t much time left.

Murdock seems to realize it to, as he sighs raggedly and opens his eyes just a bit. “Faceman, you know I love you, right?”

“Yeah, I do, buddy. I love you too.” He’s trying not to focus on how the hand he has is starting to fade.

“Don’t be too sad, all right, baby?” The pilot’s remaining hand ghosts his face once, just once more. It hurts how much that hand still fits to his face. “Don’t go regrettin’ all the would of, could of, should ofs. Won’t do anyone any good, and you’ve still got things to get done.”

“Nothing as important as being here,” he replies, helping Murdock’s hand to stay on his cheek, lending strength to it. Taking it in for when it won’t be there.

A faint smile now. “I love you, Face. Always have.”

And something in the way the pilot says it brings new tears, brings new regrets he didn’t want to acknowledge, had been trying to put away with rationalizations: it’s not right, it’s not acceptable, it can’t be that, it would be a regret. He was right, it would be a regret.

Just not the type of regret he thought it would be.

“I’m so sorry, Murdock…” It’s all he can say, all he can get out as he squeezes that hand and leans in to that palm.

“Don’t be.” Murdock pats his cheek, then slips his hand away, too tired to stay now even with help.

“Always will be.” He can’t help it, he’s crying. Had promised himself he wouldn’t.

“Shhhh, baby,” Murdock shushes. “It’s all right. Promise, baby, it’s all right. Got you here now, always had you when I needed you, and a fella can’t ask for more a true friend than that.”

Perhaps not, but he could have, and he wishes he had been the one to ask. Hadn’t been so afraid of something that could have been, should have been, would have-

“Told you not to do that.” Murdock is frowning at him, that uncanny ability to see inside his complex head not lost even now. Even now. “Don’t want you beating yourself up over this, Face. We both know you’re good at that. Promise me you won’t?”

He hesitates, earning him another, “Face, promise me?”

All he can do is nod, whisper, “Promise.” He brings that hand up to his mouth, kisses it lightly. “I love you too, Murdock.”

This time he puts that regret behind it, that meaning that isn’t just the team mate kind of love, but the one he hasn’t been able to admit until it’s too late. Too fucking late.

The type of love that makes Murdock’s eyes crinkle as that grin comes back. “Oh Face...” So damn joyful, so damn smug, even now.

He has to smile at that as he leans in to kiss Murdock’s head, hesitating at the last moment and switching to kiss the man where he deserves. Gets a kiss back that’s not what he expects, not what he’s used to, but something that he’ll treasure for a long, long time. Something that is strong, and sweet, and just a little bit this side of crazy.

Something completely and singularly Murdock.

When he pulls back Murdock’s eyes are closed, hand still in his, barely gripping now. And he knows, just knows as he pulls up the covers and begins to tuck them in around the Texan with his other hand, creasing and folding and tucking in the frail form before him, that it all comes down to this. All ends in one final, last, funny little show of affection that has been with him for so long, through ‘Nam and fugitive and beyond. That this is the only time he gets to do this.

He just wishes he’d done it sooner.

Wishes that, forty years ago, he’d taken that chance in that van and asked then. Acted then. Took a step that could bring him home to here that much faster. That much sooner. Could have let him explore what all of this could have been, should have been, would-

“Face?” He stops to lean in, to listen, the train of thought dying at the pilot’s voice. “They here?”

The door creaks a bit more and there’s B.A., leaning on the cane he swears he doesn’t really need, and Frankie, balding and glasses but walking with that shadow of youth that he still sees when he looks in the mirror. Perfect timing, as always, those two. Like Murdock knows, orchestrated this all. 

Chances are he did.

“They’re here, baby.” He doesn’t care that it slipped out, doesn’t care anymore as he turns back to Murdock, to those brown eyes that shine like a bird from so long ago, bathed in orange, and fiery, just as they are now so very deep down. “We’re all here.”

Murdock smiles. “Good.” And closes his eyes.

Funny little thing, time.

You never really have enough.

**Author's Note:**

> Written for the [ateam_prompts](http://ateam-prompts.livejournal.com/) meme.


End file.
